


"To Do What Is Required"

by farad



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "Obsession", from an idea discussed on Daybook: what if Rafael met up with Ella Gaines?</p>
            </blockquote>





	"To Do What Is Required"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thaccian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaccian/gifts).



> Many many thanks for all the help from Jojo and Huntersglenn, with characterization and betas (multiple). All mistakes my very own.

  
_CHRIS: Isn't this a little beneath you, following a woman around? Spying on her?_

_Rafael looks after Inez, but stops._

_RAFAEL: I serve the house of Madera. Sometimes, serving the son is not the same as serving the father._

_CHRIS: We make our own beds._

_RAFAEL: I owe don Paulo's father my life._

_CHRIS: Does that mean doing everything this boy tells you to?_

_RAFAEL: It means, I do what is required._   


from "Love and Honor", transcript courtesy of the wonderful Zeke Black _  
_  


 

He rode into town late on hot May afternoon. He hadn't planned to come this far, not into the town itself, where he might meet up with some of 'los magnificos'.

 

But he had been looking for one of them, the one he knew, the one who understood respect and honor. He had stopped at the cabin where he had first encountered the man, a lifetime ago, in the days when he, himself, had been respectable. Honorable.

 

The man he sought had not been at his cabin, and the place, though well-tended, had felt empty, as if the man who lived there had been absent for so long that the land no longer bore his mark.

 

So Rafael Cordova de Martinez had sat on the winding trail, debating with himself. At this point, he could turn around and go back, tell the senora who had sought his services that this Senor Larabee no longer lived at the place she said.

 

As far as he could tell, it was not a lie. There was no sign of the man.

 

But – but.

 

He had changed in many ways in the past months. He had been forced to. There was work for men who did what he did, but here in Norte Americano, the men who hired him had not the honor of those in his beloved Mexico. They did not want loyal retainers to protect the honor of their family names. They wanted hired guns to do the work of thugs and criminals.

 

It had been rare that he had taken a job, and then only when he could reconcile his needs with the growing grey lines of his own ethics.

 

This job had seemed simple, straight forward and clear. Respectable. A woman whose husband had abandoned her.

 

'He has fallen into a bad crowd, men who don't respect his commitment to his wife, to his family.' She had put her hand on her belly, the message clear. 'Bring him back to me. If I can talk to him away from the others, I am sure he will understand.'

 

She was so small, so fragile, but such a lady in her fine white dress and its matching parasol, her long hair pulled back and veiled, as a proper lady dressed.

 

But it was as he had helped her to a chair that she had finally said her name, and the name of the man she wanted: Larabee. Ella Gaines Larabee, married to Christopher Larabee.

 

It had taken him a few seconds to make the connection, and by the time he did, she was looking away from him, gesturing for a waiter to serve them. It had allowed him to consider his options.

 

The honorable thing to do was to tell her he could not do it, he knew this man and he did not believe that he could do as she required. He remembered the way the man behaved, the code of conduct they shared.

 

But then again, things here were not always what they seemed, people weren't. He had learned that in the past months. It was possible that this man he thought he knew he did not know at all.

 

Though his instincts were usually right about people.

 

He studied her as she talked to the waiter. His mother had once told him that the quality of a person could be seen in the way they treated those of lesser status. Rafael's own experience had proven this to be true. As he had told Senor Larabee months before, 'serving the son is not the same as serving the father'. Don Paulo was a nothing like his father.

 

And this woman was like Don Paulo. The sneer on her face as she waved the waiter away transformed into a smile as she turned to him.

 

His instinct told him she was the one to watch out for. He listened to her, watched her tears and her smiles. Some of it was lies, but some of it he wasn't sure about. Some of it she believed.

 

"He is here," she said, holding out a piece of paper along with a handful of American paper money. "Bring him to me. Alive and unharmed."

 

He wanted to say no, the word was on the tip of his tongue, ready to spring from his lips. But her hand was on his, her fingers pressing the money into his palm.

 

And somewhere in his gut there was a twist of curiosity, a desire to know the truth of this matter. The only way to do that was to once more talk to this man, this Larabee.

 

"Well, now, what brings you back to town?" The voice startled him out of his thoughts and he looked down from his horse toward the voice.

 

Inez's champion rose from a chair on the boardwalk, one hand, his left hand, moving to push his hat back so he could see more clearly. His right hand was at his side, but not too far from his gun. Rafael sat still, his own right hand resting on his thigh, this horse's reins in his left.

 

"Senor," he said calmly, watching the man. "Just passing through." It was an answer he had heard many times, and he had come to understand that it meant nothing, but was also not a threat. And at this moment, he was not a threat.

 

"Yeah, right," the man was smiling, his teeth bright from the shadows of the porch, but his voice was not warm. He hadn't drawn his gun, though. "Reckon I owe you a beer, for saving my life. Never got a chance to do that, the last time you were here."

 

Rafael watched for a few seconds, but the man – Wilmington, he recalled – made no move to go for his gun. So he nodded, once, and dismounted, leading his horse to the hitching post. There was water in the trough and his horse took advantage of it, drinking long and deep as Rafael tied off the reins. "That would be most appreciated," he said, looking up to where Wilmington stood on the boardwalk.

 

The man nodded and waved a hand toward the swinging doors nearby. "Inez runs this place now – you ain't coming to take her back?" The last words were rushed, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

 

Rafael shook his head, both amused and a little sad. "No, senor, I no longer work for that family." Because I saved your life and got the son of my master killed, he added in his head.

 

The other man's expression softened, though, as if he had heard the words. "All righty, then," he said, gesturing. "Reckon she won't mind serving you a beer. After all, you did save the life of her knight in shining armor." He grinned again, but this time, he showed fewer teeth and seemed less dangerous.

 

Rafael followed him into the bar, taking a few seconds to look around. There were a few others that he recognized from his last visit here. The gambler sat at a table with several other men, dealing cards and flashing his gold tooth as he talked. One of the others, the preacher, sat at a table alone, sipping from a beer as he read a book.

 

No sign, though, of Larabee.

 

"Inez?" Wilmington called as he neared the bar.

 

Rafael look past him and saw the woman who had been the focus of Don Paulo's hunt standing there, her dark eyes flashing, her hands on her hips. She stood straight and tall, as tall as she could, as if daring him to say something.

 

"He ain't here for you," Wilmington started, stopping a foot or so away. "I invited him in, to have a beer for saving my life – you remember that part, don't you?"

 

Rafael moved past him, though, coming in close to the bar and taking off his hat. He bowed, holding his hat to his chest, and said in his own tongue, "It is good to see you well, Senorita, and I apologize for any harm or pain I may have caused you before."

 

He held his pose for a time, long enough to let her think about his words, then he straightened but remained with his hat over his heart, a sign of respect.

 

She tilted her head to one side, eying him, but her hands dropped away from her hips and after a time, she nodded. In the same tongue, she said, "You worked for a pig." Her voice was level with just a bare hint of anger.

 

"Si," he agreed.

 

"Why should I serve you? You did his bidding, you are no different from him." The last was said with a hardness that he knew, a hardness that came from suffering. From an anger that would always be with her.

 

The truth of it, though, was that she was right. Perhaps he was wrong to think that his lack of honor was a new thing, something that came with his betrayal of Don Paulo. And wasn't that, at its heart, what he was worried for now?

 

He swallowed, not certain how to answer her. After a time, he looked up at her and said, "I am different, in that I am alive. And that I try, now, to work for the good of women such as yourself, women who may have been hurt by men no better than Don Paulo."

 

She stared at him, her broad forehead creasing as she frowned. Then she sighed, but the corners of her lips twitched. When she spoke again, it was in English. "He is your responsibility, Buck. See that he causes no trouble and carries off no women." Rafael stiffened at the implication but before he could speak up, she went on, "That is your job, after all." She grinned then, but it was for the other man who laughed and finally stepped up to the bar.

 

"Ain't no woman for me but you!" he called as she made her way off to get them beer. But he was grinning, wide, and as he turned back to Rafael, he said, "Told you she'd be glad to see you. She couldn't do without me."

 

The memory of Don Paulo sprang to mind and Rafael stiffened, wondering what Inez had gotten herself into. But Wilmington's eyes were soft, holding none of the hardness that Don Paulo's had had. This man, this 'magnifico', he had protected Inez, defended her honor, and even now, he did not force her.

 

He saw the confirmation of this when Inez returned, setting two full mugs of beer on the bar. She tossed her head, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her chin coming up. Defiant.

 

But she, too, was smiling, her eyes soft.

 

Wilmington reached into his pocket and drew out the coins for payment, but she shook her head. "This is my debt," she said. "You have the next." She turned enough to throw her chin out at Rafael and though her eyes hardened a little, they were not angry.

 

He lifted his mug in her direction. "Gracias, Senorita," he said with a nod.

 

Wilmington also lifted his, but as she moved away down the bar to serve someone else, he turned his head, watching her.

 

Rafael drank slowly, letting Wilmington turn his attention back to his raised glass and start to sip. When he did, Rafael put down his own mug, letting the liquid roll over his tongue as he looked around the room. It paid to be aware of who was where, and he was still looking for Larabee. The gambler was still at his table, dealing cards and talking, and the other people in saloon seemed to take no notice of Rafael.

 

His companion put his mug back on the bar, swallowing happily. "A pretty woman, a good mug of beer – what could be better?"

 

"Si," Rafael agreed, because it was hard to argue with that.

 

"So you been keeping out of trouble?" Wilmington asked, turning toward Rafael and leaning on the bar. "Chris said you weren't heading back home."

 

Rafael shrugged. The fact that this man knew that and that he was so cavalier with the information annoyed him, but there was no advantage to letting him know. "I failed," he said. "I was to protect Don Paulo and see that he returned home alive. He did not."

 

The man tilted his head to one side. He was no longer smiling. "No, not after you shot his hired gun to protect me. I've always wondered why you did that." He said it easily, as if they were talking about the weather, but the weight of the words was in his gaze, his dark blue eyes locking onto Rafael's as if they were watching for him to draw.

 

Rafael weighed the price of the answer and found it slight. "A duel for a woman is one that should be honorable, fairly won," he said. "There was no honor in what he planned."

 

"So you did it for Inez?" he asked, his words still easy but slower now, as if he were thinking about the idea.

 

Rafael looked to the end of the bar, where Inez talked with the men she served. "Perhaps," he answered, treading carefully. "And for Don Paulo. He would not have been respected if he had cheated."

 

Wilmington's shoulders straightened. "So you did it to protect his honor?" he said, his voice lower now and less friendly.

 

Rafael lifted his mug, drinking as he thought about how to answer this. There was no way that this man would understand what honor meant, not the honor that attached to a family, not to the man himself.

 

As he swallowed, he met the man's eyes. "Don Paulo had no honor. His reason for coming here was dishonorable, as you, a man of honor, knows. Everything he did added yet another stain to his family name, to the list of things his father, my seigneur, will answer for in the next world. I could not allow Don Paulo to put more on that list, not if I could stop it."

 

The man stared at him, thinking about his words, until after a time, he nodded once. "Guess I can understand – well, I can't understand, seems like his daddy ought to have kept him home and taught him how to respect women. But I guess I can understand when you feel that you have to protect someone, even when you don't agree with them. Reckon I've done that enough as of late, even when you know they're wrong."

 

He shook his head and sighed, looking into his mug, and Rafael knew there was much to this story – and he suspected that there was much to it that involved the man he was looking for.

 

But he didn't ask – not yet, not about this. This man, he thought, would do the talking himself if left alone. And Rafael had no where else to be, not for a time.

 

Instead, he asked, "Senor Larabee, he is well?"

 

Wilmington continued to smile, but his body tightened and the softness left his eyes. "Same old Chris," he said, but there was an edge in his tone that said otherwise.

 

Rafael nodded, leaning on the bar, keeping both hands above it. It was a sign that he was no threat, and he was reasonably sure the other man understood it. "We never had the chance to test ourselves against the other. Perhaps this visit we can see who is fastest."

 

The man made a noise that might have been a laugh, but it was not like the other laughs he had made. He shook his head, and lifted his beer once more, but before he drank, he said shortly, "Yeah, maybe."

 

These words were hard but also bitter. Rafael wondered why, but more, he wondered what Larabee had done to earn this from the man he had protected so well before. Was the senora right? Had Larabee done something to bring dishonor on himself and the other magnificos?

 

It would do no good to ask here, so he sipped at his beer and waited, watching the ebb and flow of people in the room, the movement of the gambler's hands as he dealt cards and raked in coins. After a time, several men at the card table gathered up their things, nodded to the gambler, and took their leave. The gambler looked around for players to fill the vacant places, then he waved to Wilmington.

 

"Come on," Wilmington said, picking up his beer mug and slapping Rafael on the shoulder. "Let's see how Ezra's doing."

 

Two of them, together, Rafael thought, would surely let slip something about Larabee. And if he waited long enough, the man himself would eventually show up.

 

"Well, now," the gambler said as they approached the table, "whatever brings you back to our fair town, senor?" He smiled at Rafael but his eyes were shrewd – not cold, but shrewd. This one was smart. He knew people and he didn't trust them, not at all.

 

Rafael glanced to Wilmington who was already settling into one of the chairs. The man seemed relaxed enough, introducing himself to the some of the others, so Rafael assumed that there wasn't going to be any kind of violent trouble. "Passing through," he said, touching one of the other vacant chairs. "May I?"

 

"By all means," the gambler said, waving one hand. "I only look at the color of a man's money."

 

"Hell, Ezra," Wilmington laughed, reaching out to slap Rafael on the shoulder again, "is that any way to talk to the man who saved my life?"

 

"Ah," Ezra said, lifting his glass in a mock toast, "then I should make him pay double to play?"

 

Rafael had to sort through the words – they didn't make sense until he realized that the two men were teasing each other. By the time he understood, though, Ezra was dealing cards, Wilmington was chattering away about how Rafael had saved him from a gang of armed thugs with such exaggeration that even Rafael was amused, and the men around the table were laughing.

 

They played for a time, Rafael not winning but also not losing, breaking even for the most part. He noticed that most of them seemed to do that, even Wilmington. Even Ezra. The conversation was light and easy, but Rafael was quick to notice that neither Wilmington nor Ezra mentioned their friends to the strangers. When one of the man asked after the sheriff, Wilmington smiled and pointed toward the door. "Office is across the street. JD is in charge of it but he's got a fair lot of deputies helping him out. If you're planning on reporting Ezra, though, you won't get much help. He always lets the sheriff win."

 

They all laughed, with Ezra adding something about being on the good side of the local law. Several tables away, the preacher looked up from his book and grinned then returned to his reading.

 

It was growing dark outside when the men who had been at the table cashed out their hands and withdrew in search of dinner. Rafael had thoughts of leaving also. It was getting late and he needed to see to his horse and to find a place for the night.

 

"You are always welcome back," Ezra said, indicating the card game, and Rafael thanked him.

 

"Who knows what the night will bring?" he asked as he rose.

 

"I hope I do," Wilmington grinned.

 

As Rafael made his way toward the doors, he passed the Negro healer who nodded to him, curious, he could tell, but the Negro did not stop to ask. Instead, he made their way toward Ezra's table and the preacher rose from his table, closing his book and picking up his mug.

 

As Rafael moved through the doors, he could feel eyes on him and he suspected that the healer was asking after him.

 

The man at the livery remembered him, which made the questions easier to ask, but the answers were vague.

 

"Chris? Yeah, he's still around. You can store your saddle in the tack room, there. We lock it up at night, so its safe."

 

"Gracias," Rafael said. "Where might I find him?"

 

The man shrugged. "Buck and Ezra are usually somewhere around the saloon. They'd know. Hay's in the store room, oats, too, though they'll cost you more. I dole those out, so let me know now if you want 'em. Feeding time's coming up."

 

Something was wrong. Rafael could feel it, in the way no one spoke of him. Perhaps, then, the senora was right?

 

He feed his horse and gathered his saddle bags, the questions rolling around in his mind. As he came out of the livery and started up the street, lamp light was beginning to shine through the windows of different buildings, places where there were homes as well as businesses. There was one coming through the front of the building across from the saloon, the one that was the sheriff's office.

 

The young man from before, Larabee's young rooster, he might be there. He would be the most likely to talk – even if he didn't mean to. The trick would be not to have to shoot him.

 

He stepped up onto the boardwalk, his steps hard and his spurs jingly. Best not to surprise this young man, which was why he also stopped at the door and knocked several times before turning the knob.

 

The young man, JD, sat behind the desk, reading a book. Rafael could see past him to the two jail cells, one of which was empty, the other of which held someone who was stretched out on the cot, his arm over his face. If the noise was any indication, the man in the cell was sleeping, and quite well.

 

"Can I – what the hell do you want?" The young man came to his feet easily, one hand falling to his hip, close to his gun.

 

Rafael nodded, studying him as he said, "I am passing through the town," he said easily. "I thought I might find Senor Larabee here."

 

The young man was – different. He was still young, but it was less so than before. He had changed since Rafael's last visit, in ways that Rafael appreciated. Now, JD stood staring back at him, careful and distant, not the hot, reactionary youth he had been before.

 

Something had happened, something that had affected all of these men.

 

"I'll give him a message," JD said, his voice even.

 

Rafael tilted his head, surprised. This one had learned caution. Like Wilmington, he was giving nothing away. "I do not plan to be here very long. Will he be back soon?"

 

JD opened his mouth, then he closed it. He shifted, relaxing just a little, before asking, "Who said he's gone?"

 

He had learned much. He had learned to give nothing away.

 

Rafael shrugged. "I merely wish to speak with him," he said. "It is a personal matter."

 

The young man's eyes narrowed and his face tightened. He seemed to have aged, the roundness of youth gone from his cheeks and his lips. He seemed older by years, and Rafael thought he might have seen wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. "I'll let him know you were here," he said after a time. "If you're still here, and he wants to talk to you, where can he find you?"

 

Rafael smiled, impressed with this one despite himself. "Where do you suggest?" he asked. "I have not yet found a room."

 

JD blinked, surprised, but he recovered quickly. "The hotels are both good, but Inez – the saloon is also good and cheaper."

 

Rafael nodded, understanding the implication: Inez could use the money. It wasn't as if he didn't owe her. "I will be there, then, should you see Senor Larabee this night."

 

The young man nodded, his hand finally dropping away from his gun. "How personal?" he asked. The question was rude, enough so that Rafael stiffened at the insult. But as he looked into the young face, he knew that it was not confrontation that provoked the rudeness but concern. As he had before, this one was trying to protect someone he respected and honored.

 

Rafael bent slightly at the waist, not a bow but still polite. "I have no intention of hurting him. I would have conversation." He waited for a few seconds, assuming that the young man would answer. When the silence grew, he looked up carefully and saw the frown on JD's face. Sighing, Rafael said, "I only wish to speak to him."

 

The frown cleared and while JD did not smile, he relaxed, his shoulders dropping a little. "Like I said, I don't know how sociable he'll be, but I'll let him know."

 

Rafael tilted his head and touched the brim of his hat in a salute. Then he turned and walked out the door, closing it carefully behind him. As the cool air of the night touched him, he knew that something was badly wrong here. Something had happened to Senor Larabee and his men, more loyal than hounds, were protecting him.

 

It stirred something warm in the pit of his belly, this memory of what it was like to have the trust of men and to be trusted by them. Before he could stop himself, he cursed Don Paulo, the swine, for taking this from him. Though he knew, even as the curse slipt from his mind, that it was he who had betrayed as well.

 

The sun was sinking low, casting red streaks across a grey and blue sky. He looked up, thinking that some things were the same no matter where he was in the world. It was some consolation, an understanding that some things were eternal no matter what he did, where he was.

 

He stepped off the boardwalk and made his way across the street to the saloon. It was busier, louder, and he could hear the noise of voices and music before he was close enough to see in the door.

 

He had to move through groups of people standing around tables as he passed through to the bar, and once there, he had to wait for a while before the crowd thinned enough for him to talk to Inez. While he waited, he surveyed the room, not surprised to find that Ezra still had a full table, but most of it was not the other 'los magnificos'. Wilmington was still there, but the other two, the healer and the preacher, were gone.

 

"Why are you still here?" The words were sharp but not angry, and he looked to see Inez standing in front of him. Her hands were on the bar, not on her hips, and her head was tilted to one side as if she were trying to work out a problem.

 

"I need a room, por favor," he said, stepping closer to the bar. "I have heard that you have good ones and - "

 

"Si, senor, I have rooms," she said. "But that was not what I was asking."

 

He wanted to tell her it was none of her concern, he wanted to tell her that she should be pleased with his favor – but he also knew he had done her a great wrong. So he held his tongue and thought about her question.

 

He did owe her a favor. More than he owed the senora his loyalty. It was a strange thought, one he had not anticipated.

 

"I need to speak with Senor Larabee," he said quietly, and in their native tongue. "I have . . . information." It was not a lie. It was not a truth, either, but it was not a lie.

 

Her head tilted a little more and she raised an eyebrow. He held her gaze, steady in this version of the truth.

 

Eventually, she nodded, once, and reached to pull a glass off the shelf and a bottle of whiskey from the counter. As she poured a large measure into the glass, she said, also in Spanish, "You may have a room for the night, and you may have this bottle. But Senor Chris – well, I cannot promise that you will speak to him. He is very busy."

 

Rafael sighed. "So I have heard," he said, drawing dollar bills from his pocket and putting them on the bar. "I would worry for his health, but no one seems willing to share with me his particular ailment." He glanced at her as she pushed the glass across the bar, and he saw the change in her features, the softness at the corner of her eyes, and the worry in the set of her mouth.

 

So something had happened. Something bad.

 

He wasn't aware of moving, but he must have, because she stiffened, her head straightening and her eyes narrowing. He held up a hand instinctively, sincerely worried – and surprised by it.

 

But not really. And it was that realization that guided his tongue as he said, "He is a good man. If there is anything I can do, I would like to do it."

 

She sighed but something in her changed. She wasn't as angry, her features softening and her stance relaxing. She looked away from him, thinking, then she turned back and leaned close, as if to demand the money.

 

He leaned in also, close enough to hear her softly spoken words. "I tell you this because you saved Buck. Because you did the right thing, finally." She looked around, past him, and he knew she was looking toward the table where Ezra and Wilmington sat. When she spoke, he could barely hear her, and he had to lean in even closer, almost on top of the bar itself. "He was shot in the chest. He almost died. The others – well, they are worried, maybe more now that he has survived. He is looking for the person who did this, and they are doing what they can to help and to protect him. But he is like a man possessed. He does not seem to care if it will kill him."

 

Rafael picked up the drink, sipping at it as he thought. Her words made sense, but they also did not. Of course a man who had been shot would look for the one who did it. That made perfect sense. Even to the point of retribution, perhaps even of death. Honor demanded that a man avenge himself and his family.

 

The part that confused him was that Inez knew this. And so, too, would Larabee's compadres. Yet the men here seemed to be resentful of this. Angry even. As if it were not right – or, perhaps, as if Larabee were not doing what he should be doing?

 

If Larabee had been hurt – shot in the chest, which could not have been a minor thing – then he had a justifiable vengeance. His men would understand that. And they would help, as Inez had said. Yet they were worried and they were angry. Worried that Larabee had not allowed himself time to heal? Worried that he was not ready yet for the fight?

 

That made sense. And it made sense in another way as well; this woman who was seeking him, this woman who said she was his wife, she would not understand why he could not yet come home. Few women did, certainly not the women here in Norte Americano.

 

Inez still stood in front of him, her expression calm but her eyes demanding. She understood, of course, she was a woman from his own land. He nodded, swallowing down the last of the liquor. "I will help him," he said calmly. "I will go with him to avenge his honor."

 

She arched one eyebrow, as if she questioned his resolve, but then she grinned. It was a bare flash of her teeth in the shadows, but it was there. And if he had doubted his own eyes, he stopped when she held up the bottle once more and refilled his glass. "If he wishes you to," she said, but the words were warmer now. Softer.

 

She walked away, leaving the bottle on the counter. As he sipped at his drink, he looked about the place. It was growing more crowded, a decent business. She was doing well for herself here. As he looked about, he caught the gaze of Ezra, who nodded then slowly grinned. His gold tooth did not flash in the light and he showed no teeth.

 

Not a threat.

 

Something clattered on the bar near him and he jerked back to find Inez putting a plate in front of him. He glanced at it as he opened his mouth to refuse it, and his nose caught the smell of pollo and peppers and cumin and – perfection. His mouth watered so much that he thought he might drool if he spoke.

 

"Eat," she said, laughter in her voice. "It is like home."

 

He nodded, licking his lips as he looked back at the plate. He had missed this most of all, the food, the flavors, the taste of home.

 

He ate. He couldn't not, couldn't stop himself from picking up the fork and tasting it. Just as he remembered. And better.

 

The flavors rolled around his mouth, over his tongue, bringing back memories of warmth and comfort and family, of knowing the rules, of knowing what was right and wrong, of honor and loyalty and knowing who he was.

 

He was half way through the meal, slowing as the hunger waned, when he realized there was someone beside him. He continued to eat, not looking around, but he was acutely aware of the heat and the pressure of the other man, and eventually, the smell of leather and sweat and dirt.

 

"She does good, don't she," a voice said low and grating near his ear.

 

He swallowed and turned, not surprised to find the man who had protected Inez before, the man with the long hair, buffalo coat, and hard blue eyes. The buffalo hunter. He was leaning against the bar, a beer in front of him. Rafael had no recollection of him walking up or ordering, but then, he probably hadn't had to. Inez would have known what he wanted.

 

Inez would know what he . . .

 

He stared at the other man then glanced down the bar. Inez was at the far end, laughing at something a man said as she poured a drink. He looked back to the other man and the other man grinned, a quick flash of his white teeth. "Best you remember to respect her," he said, sounding friendly, but Rafael knew better.

 

"Si," he said, then he cleared his throat.

 

The other man didn't move but Rafael felt the tension ease. "She's made a good life for herself here," he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows against the bar. He turned his head so that his words were toward Rafael though he was leaning too far forward for Rafael to see his eyes.

 

He had the sense that that didn't matter, though, that this man knew everything he was doing. After a few seconds, he went back to eating. No use wasting this good food.

 

As he ate, the man beside him remained still, sipping at his beer. Patient and calm, as Rafael remembered him. As he had been with Inez, as he had been at the duel with Don Paulo. As he had been with Chris Larabee.

 

Something coiled in his belly, a heat that wasn't from the food, as he remembered this man and how he had protected Inez. How he had defended her. And more worrisome than that discomfort was that he felt it at all. It was this place, these people.

 

He finished the meal and pushed the plate to the side, picking up his whiskey. As he took a long sip, the man beside him said, "Lot of things have happened since you were here last. But one thing ain't changed: ain't none of us letting anything happen to Chris. I reckon you're here on a job. If you're here looking for help, me, Buck, Ezra – we're your best bets for getting it right now."

 

Rafael looked at the other man, intrigued by his perceptiveness. He was, indeed, here for a job. "Gracias," he said slowly, "I will bear that in mind." He lifted his whiskey in a salute before taking a long sip. The man beside him drank once more from his own glass, his body relaxed but his eyes watchful.

 

Rafael had told Inez and he had told the young man. One of them would eventually tell either this one or Wilmington, so it would not be a secret. Perhaps, then, he could use it to his own advantage. "I have information that Senor Larabee may wish," he said, leaning closer.

 

The buffalo hunter's broad brow creased as he frowned. "What sort of information?" he said the last word slowly, drawing out the syllables as if he were considering what they meant.

 

Rafael tilted his head, not ready to give away too much. "Perhaps it would be best if I spoke to him alone. It is of a . . . personal nature."

 

The man beside him stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he studied Rafael. "How personal?" There was an edge in his voice, sharp enough to cut leather.

 

Rafael straightened, not caring for the turn the conversation was taking or the rudeness of this man. There were some things that only men of low character would disrespect, and a man's private affairs were one of them.

 

He opened his mouth to say as much when the doors of the saloon were pushed inward, one of them slamming back against the wall. Boot heels rapped hard on the wooden floor, the tinny jingle of spurs accompanying them in a regular rhythm, a familiar rhythm, one that Rafael responded to even though he couldn't have said that he recognized it, not consciously.

 

He turned, peripherally aware that the buffalo hunter did as well, and that most of the heads in the saloon also looked as Chris Larabee marched into the room.

 

Larabee was dressed in solid black, a long duster swirling about him but not hiding the silver conchos on his black leather belt and holster. His hat was pushed back on his head, casting his face in shadows, but through them, Rafael could see the paleness of his skin, the tautness of it as it stretched sharply over the fine bones of his face.

 

He had been ill, there was no question of that. His clothes looked large on his body, and Rafael thought he could see the man's skeleton as clearly as he saw his features, perhaps more clearly.

 

But his eyes – they told the story. They were bright, too bright, burning from within as if a fever still raged there. Or a demon.

 

When he looked at Rafael, Rafael thought of possession, of the things the church fathers had warned of, demons who took control of the weak, of the helpless. He was only aware of crossing himself when his hand passed before his eyes, momentarily blocking his sight of the other man.

 

When he could see again, Larabee stood right in front of him, those blazing eyes staring into his with a force that seemed to scorch Rafael's mind.

 

"Heading back through town to Mexico?" Larabee asked, his tone low and his words as sharp as the buffalo hunter's had been.

 

Rafael swallowed, thinking about taking a sip of his whiskey but knowing better than to show the weakness. Instead, with only a brief moment to consider the stupidity of it, he said, "I am looking for you, senor. I have information that may be of interest to you."

 

Larabee tilted his head to one side, studying Rafael so intently that Rafael thought once more of those demons, thought that perhaps the man he had come in search of was there no more, possessed now by the will of Satan. He wondered if all of these men were such, demons in the guise of men. But they didn't feel that way.

 

Not even now, as they stared at him and their leader, the weight of their eyes like the thick air of a hot day just after a rain.

 

The buffalo hunter shifted, leaning a little more on the bar, as if he were comfortable. Larabee glanced to him when he moved, and Rafael felt a physical relief, as if he'd been standing too close to a fire. Until Larabee looked back at him.

 

"Information?" he asked, his voice sounding even more rusty. "What sort of information?"

 

Rafael tilted toward the buffalo hunter and said, "Information of a private nature. Perhaps you would not wish for every one to know?"

 

He had thought he was being discreet, giving Larabee a chance to determine how much of his business he wanted others to know. Giving him a chance to think of something other than this quest to find the man who had shot him.

 

But the response was as confusing as everything else had been in this situation so far. Larabee straightened as if he'd been challenged, his hand pushing his coat to one side then falling to rest on his pistol.

 

Instinctively, Rafael straightened as well, his hand going to his own gun. This wasn't what he had expected, certainly wasn't what he wanted, but he was a professional, and the possibility of anything going the opposite of what was expected was always in the back of his mind.

 

"She hired you." Larabee's voice was barely a whisper, more a vibration on the air, one that thrummed through Rafael's belly and up his spine, sending out warning signals that made Rafael's fingers tighten on his pistol as his mind calculated the location of each of Larabee's compadres in the bar. He would have to shoot Larabee, then the buffalo hunter, then the men at the table -

 

Larabee moved then, the action so fast that Rafael barely had time to get his gun out of its holster. Not that it did any good, though, for the man had not done as Rafael expected; he had not drawn to shoot. Instead, he had stepped forward, right up against Rafael, and thrown one solid punch straight into Rafael's belly as he yelled, "Tell me where she is, tell me where the bitch is!"

 

The blow was hard enough to take Rafael's breath and as he bent forward, his jaw connected with Larabee's shoulder. He grunted, partly in pain, partly as an expulsion of air, but he was aware of his gun in his hand, that his fingers tightened around the trigger. It was an effort, one that demanded concentration, to keep his muscles from clenching and setting off the gun.

 

Then something warm and smelling of animal pushed its way between him and Larabee, pushing Rafael back against the bar. The muscles of his stomach, bruised from the punch, protested against this new position, and they protested more when he drew a deep breath and forced himself to be aware of his surroundings.

 

Before him was a wide brown plain, and as his vision cleared, he saw that it was the back of the buffalo hunter. After a few deep breaths, the ringing in his ears passed and he managed to hear the other man's faint words.

 

" . . . no need in this. Even if he is working for her, don't you think it'd be best to wheedle the information out of him as to where she is?"

 

The man's voice was low, soothing, as if he were taming a wild horse. But then, maybe he was. The image of Larabee's face flashed through Rafael's mind, once more a demon from hell. It was only as he reached to cross himself again that he realized he was still holding his gun.

 

"If he knows where she is, I'll beat it out of him!" Larabee said, his voice loud but not strong, a reed in the wind. Though it did carry in the silence that surrounded them.

 

"Could start by asking first," another voice said, one more gentle and familiar than the buffalo hunter's. Wilmington. "Ain't like he's here to kill you."

 

"How the hell do you - " But Larabee's words cut off in the middle, as if he knew the question was stupid. Maybe he did.

 

"Chris." One word, slow and easy. Rafael wasn't sure which one of the men said it, but whichever one did, it worked. He couldn't see past the expanse of brown in front of him, but he could feel the tension in the room ease. Within a few seconds, conversation started back up – muted and slow, but it was starting. He glanced to his right and saw that Ezra was still looking in their direction but he was smiling to the few men at the table, his hands already shuffling the deck of cards.

 

Behind him, he felt someone come in close then Inez whispered, "Tell them everything. Do not be so stupid as to hold back information."

 

There was no threat in the words, but there was a promise, and he well understood it: these men would protect him only so far. Only to the point that their leader was proven correct.

 

But that led to another question, one that was even more confusing: what the hell was Larabee talking about? Certainly he couldn't be talking about the woman who had hired him, the woman who just wanted her husband back. Larabee was on the hunt for someone who had almost killed him -

 

Before he could reason through what he was hearing, the buffalo hunter shifted, stepping to one side so that he could half turn to look at Rafael. As he moved, Rafael saw Wilmington standing on the other side, both men flanking Larabee, who still stood straight and tall, his hands knotted into fists but not on his guns.

 

His eyes still flamed though, and there was a muscle twitching in one jaw, as if he were gritting his teeth too hard.

 

Rafael drew another deep breath, moving his jaw to test it as he straightened. Carefully, he put his revolver back into its holster, certain that any one of these three men could and would shoot him if he didn't. Then, he looked back at the demon and said softly, honestly, "I did not come here to kill you, senor. I came to see if I could convince you to come back to . . . " He hesitated, aware that the buffalo hunter and Wilmington had both stiffened, that they were looking from him to Larabee and back. Caution, this was a time for great caution. "To talk to her," he said finally, awkwardly.

 

The fire in Larabee's eyes flared bright, as bright as the Mexican sun in the middle of a summer day. "Oh, you can take me to her," he said, his voice low and rumbling, like a cat. "I will pay you to do so."

 

Wilmington blew out a breath as he turned to look at Rafael. "That really why you're here?"

 

Rafael was aware of the buffalo hunter on his other side, the man's hand on his hip, near a very large hunting knife. He had no illusions about this man – he didn't need a gun to kill. 'Tell them everything,' echoed through his head, and as if on cue, a glass of whiskey appeared on the bar beside him, then the bottle and more glasses. "Yes," he said with a nod. "I was hired to come see if Senor Larabee still lived in the cabin in the hills, and if he did, to try to talk to him about coming back."

 

"Coming back." The words were bitter, spat out as if they were tobacco juice from a plant cut too early. Larabee stepped forward, but as he moved Wilmington and the buffalo hunter moved with him, still between him and Rafael. A shield. Rafael was grateful, but also annoyed. He could take care of himself, he didn't need these men to -

 

But then he understood. It wasn't for him. It was for Larabee. These men were protecting him not from Rafael, but from himself. From what he might do that he would regret in the future.

 

He looked back at this man with the flaming eyes, this man who was skin and bones and a cloud of black death. This man that a woman would pay him to bring back – to rescue.

 

But as he looked at Wilmington, his face tired, his eyes sad; as he looked at the buffalo hunter, who was ready to step in again if necessary; as he glanced to Ezra, who sat on the other side of the room, dealing cards and taking bets while his attention was completely focused here; as he weighed the value of what each of them had said to him this day, then added to it the words of the preacher, the healer, the kid at the sheriff's office, the words of the man at the livery, and the promise of Inez, he understood: they were not keeping Larabee from a woman who loved him. They were protecting him from a love such as that of Don Paulo.

 

A love that was not love at all, but a perverse game of possession.

 

And the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. "She is the one who . . ." He blinked, his throat suddenly dry.

 

The demon's face contorted, as if it were trying to grin, the white teeth shining in the room's bright lights. "She's the one who killed my wife and son," he said flatly and he stepped forward, pushing up against the two men between them.

 

It wasn't what he had been expecting, this news about a lost family. Was Larabee confused? Did he not understand that this woman was his wife, that she wasn't dead? If so, then he needed to know -

 

"I fear that our Mexican friend may not understand the complexities here."

 

Rafael was watching Larabee, but as the other man turned toward the new voice, Rafael did also. Ezra had left his table and was walking toward the bar, carrying several empty glasses, including the one that Rafael was certain was over half full just seconds before.

 

"What you mean, Ezra?" The question came from Wilmington, in a tone that was far nicer than the expression on Larabee's face suggested he would have asked.

 

Ezra stopped several feet away from the cluster of them, putting the glasses on the bar with a clatter. "Inez, if it's not too much bother, could you refill these?" Ezra asked, looking past Rafael. After a second he smiled and Rafael assumed that Inez had given some confirmation, for Ezra turned toward him, his smile still in place. "I fear that we are confusing our friend. He only knows part of the story. The part that started – well, the part that comes from one, select source."

 

One source. One source like Don Paulo. A mad source, one who could not be trusted.

 

Rafael looked back at Larabee, understanding. "She is not your wife," he said slowly. "She is . . . "

 

Larabee's lips twisted into the demon smile. "She killed by wife and boy," he said again, as if there were no other possible answer.

 

Rafael let the words sink into his mind, into his understanding. The retelling didn't make it any easier for Rafael to accept, though he didn't doubt it. She had treated the waiter badly. She had smiled at him so prettily, so helplessly. With a plan the whole time.

 

Just like Don Paulo.

 

"She tried to kill all of us," Wilmington said, turning to look at Rafael. "One of her men shot Chris."

 

Rafael nodded, the words making sense. "He was not supposed to shoot Senor Larabee."

 

"The man wasn't supposed to die either," the buffalo hunter said easily. "Reckon she wasn't too happy about that. Just like she wasn't too happy that Chris didn't ride away with her."

 

Rafael was watching Larabee, but his thoughts were on what she had said to him, what lies she had told. 'He has fallen into a bad crowd, men who don't respect his commitment to his wife, to his family.'

 

Larabee stood staring at him, his eyes still bright, his face stark and thin. His men surrounded him, shielded him. This 'bad crowd'.

 

"We've been looking for her," Wilmington said, his words low. "Need to settle this before she kills someone else, trying to get to us."

 

The thought passed through his mind that perhaps he should ask for some sort of proof. But as he struggled to figure out a way to ask, Ezra spoke again.

 

"She is a fascinating woman. She conned us all, made us all think that she was in need of our help, in need of our protection. She hired us to protect her from another man she had hired – a man she had hired to kill us. He was the man who shot Chris. It's all quite complicated when you think about it."

 

Rafael shook his had. "No," he said, the words climbing slowly from his throat. "It's not. She wants what she wants. No matter the price." He let his gaze drift around, seeing the men, trying to see these men as bad. They could be, he had no doubt. Like himself, they lived in a world where things were not black and white. But 'family' was not bad.

 

As it had never been for him, until Don Paulo had lost touch with what that meant.

 

Larabee stared at him, and he thought he could feel the man's gaze burning through his skin, as if he were searching for Rafael's very soul.

 

Or Rafael's loyalty.

 

Something burned against Rafael's hip, a heat that scalded. The money she had given him. The money he had promised to earn.

 

Here he was again, caught between his promises and what they cost. Caught between his honor and the lack of honor of others.

 

"Might I ask," Ezra said, his voice close to Rafael's ear. He turned to find the man standing closer, his gaze direct though not as intense as Larabee's. "What did you contract to do? I doubt it was to kill him, but perhaps to deliver him?"

 

Rafael frowned but he answered honestly. "She wished me to convince him to come to talk to her, or at least to get him to where she is. Not to kill him."

 

"No," Ezra said quickly, as the buffalo hunter huffed a breath, Wilmington snorted, and both of them tensed as Larabee swore. "She would not do that. She wants Chris, and she wants the rest of us dead. Tell me, did she know that you had been here before, that you knew us?"

 

Rafael thought about it for a few seconds. "You think she knew that I could . . . "

 

The noise in the saloon had grown, but it was muted enough so that the silence around them was louder. Until the buffalo hunter sighed, Wilmington said, "Shit", and Larabee – Larabee laughed.

 

It was rough and low, like the creak of a rusty hinge, and the others turned to look at him. Rafael saw the concern on their faces, the worry, and if he hadn't understood before, he did now: Larabee was unpredictable, and perhaps unstable. He wasn't the same man Rafael had known before.

 

No, he was the man who would have stood in the middle of the street with Rafael, looking to see which one of them would die today. Now, though, it was Rafael who wasn't ready.

 

He drew a deep breath, looking at Larabee as he caught his breath, still struggling with his amusement. With his pain. "She may not be there now," he said slowly. "Hell, she's had getaway plans from the start, always ready to run for it if she had to. But we may be able to find her."

 

Beside him, Ezra lifted a glass, one that Inez had refilled. "My thoughts exactly. I have a plan." He sipped his drink as the rest of them turned to look at him.

 

As Larabee turned to look at him. His eyes were bright, his face still skeletal, but he looked like a man. And as he stepped forward, pushing his way between his two friends, they let him, though they were close behind. They created a wall around him, blocking him from the view of the rest of the bar, but it was Ezra who was at the center of their attention.

 

And as Ezra held court, giving forth his idea, Rafael felt a freedom he thought he'd lost. He'd return the money in his pocket. And at the same time that, he would right the wrongs he'd committed in his misguided loyalty to Don Paulo.

 

This man, Larabee, he was as Rafael had recognized that first day: he was a man of honor. This woman, so much like Don Paulo, had taken everything from him that he valued, except these men with him. Though even that had been a near thing.

 

"You and Rafael will ride into the town, see if she will show her face to you," Ezra said, looking at Chris, daring to meet his gaze. "If she is there, still - and that is questionable, as I have little doubt but that she sent someone along to keep an eye on Rafael, to make certain that he did what she paid him to do – then she truly is desperate to talk to you. Do you trust Rafael not to kill you?"

 

All eyes turned to Rafael and he shrugged. "She lied to me, from the start. She wanted me to believe that you had abandoned here. I do not believe that now, so I have no foundation upon which to trust her."

 

"You did what Don Paulo wanted," the buffalo hunter said, but his tone was not hard nor critical. "What makes this different?"

 

"He didn't do what Don Paulo wanted," Larabee said, his voice so rough that Rafael thought of sand scraped underfoot. "Rafael wanted Buck to lose, and he was willing to cheat to get it. Rafael stopped that."

 

Rafael nodded. "Don Paulo never lied to my face," he said, expanding on the explanation. "It was only after he – after all that happened that I found out he had done many of the other things he had done."

 

"Pico Chavez and his men?" the buffalo hunter asked.

 

Rafael closed his eyes but he nodded.

 

"That ain't his way," Larabee said. "I trust him. If he says he ain't got no loyalty to Ella, I believe him."

 

The words stirred something in Rafael, reminding him of that last day in this town, when he head asked Larabee to join him. The man hadn't said 'no', then. He hadn't rejected Rafael. Just as he wasn't doing it now.

 

"Then it is settled," Ezra said, bringing the conversation back to the point. "The two of you will ride into town. We will follow behind, sneak into town as anonymously as we can." He looked toward the buffalo hunter, his gaze moving over the leather coat and long hair, and added, "Some more anonymously than others."

 

Larabee looked at Rafael, his eyes blazing again, as if he were burning from the inside. "You with me?" he asked.

 

Rafael held that gaze, the heat of it burning him from the inside out, scalding away the taint of Don Paulo, the memory of the false wife and her lies. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the money that seemed even now to roast the flesh of his hand, until he had no choice but to let it go, the wad of it dropping to the floor. "Si," he said, or tried to say.

 

Larabee smiled, but this time, it wasn't the skeletal smile of a dead man. "You feel like dying today?" he asked, but something in him relaxed, his shoulders dropping just a little and his hips shifting as he balanced his weight on one leg.

 

Despite himself, or perhaps because of who he knew himself to be without the weight of the bullshit, Rafael smiled, too. It felt like being born all over again. "Today, senor, is just as good as any other."

 

Around him, the others laughed and carefully avoided the scattered bills drifting across the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
